That Still Center
by Joyce1
Summary: It may be possible to ignore one's heart, but it is impossible to deny its existence.


That Still Center  
  
  
  
***  
  
Rating: Young 'uns, this is rated R. It will contain R-rated material, so if you're not old enough to buy your own theater ticket, I suggest you hit the 'back' button. You have been warned.  
  
A/N: Dear god. I wrote smut. What on earth would my mother say? Aw, who cares. This is dedicated to the brilliant Queens of H/G-- you guys are the best!  
  
Disclaimer: They belong to JKR, and the title come's from Dorothy Sayer's Gaudy Night  
  
***  
  
"Well, then, Potter. Let's hear it."  
  
Harry Potter stood stiffly in front of his superior, forcing his features into a tight mask. "The raid took place as planned, sir," he said in a practiced, level voice. "There were more Death Eaters than had been initially indicated by our surveillance, but the objective was carried out successfully, regardless." He stopped abruptly; he was only required to tell what was absolutely necessary. There was no need to go into the details: the screams, the confusion, the sticky feeling of nearly-dried blood on skin-- these were all presupposed.  
  
The senior Auror nodded, picking up on the particulars that Harry had omitted. "Casualties?" he asked in an even tone. It was best to ask in as few words and with as many vagaries as possible.  
  
"Yes. Four Death Eaters-- three taken to St. Mungo's, one killed," Harry tallied, and then paused. "And one of ours. He's in the critical ward at St. Mungo's as well." The older man lifted his eyebrow slightly, a signal for Harry to continue. "It was Dean Thomas, sir." Harry forced himself to focus on a spot somewhere beyond the man's head-- it was much less disconcerting than maintaining eye contact.  
  
"I take it that the outlook isn't good?" the Auror asked gruffly.  
  
"No, sir. They've contacted his family."  
  
The man sighed almost imperceptibly as he sat down behind his desk. "Bright boy," he said softly, a quiet sadness seeping into his voice. "What has it all come to, for us to lose Aurors like him?" he mused, tiredly rubbing his temple. Harry clenched his fists surreptitiously. He could keep control so long as his superior was detached as well, but that veneer was beginning to slip. Moody was a tough old bastard-- much tougher as an Auror than he had been when he taught at Hogwarts Harry's seventh year-- and it disturbed the younger man to see his mentor shaken.  
  
Moody looked back up at Harry, his magical eye surveying the disheveled wizard in front of him. "Go home, Harry," he said in a terse voice. "Go home, and don't come in tomorrow. I don't want to see you again until you've had some rest, understand?" The voice was harsh, but Harry caught the underlying concern: You look like hell, and I'm worried about you.  
  
"Yes, sir," he said, turning to go.  
  
"And Harry?" Moody stood up, turning to retrieve a book from the bookcase by his desk. "The next time you do something as damnably stupid as pretending that you aren't hurt, I'll have your resignation on my desk before you can blink. Get that cut healed, or don't bother coming back. We need Aurors who are healthy, not martyrs." Moody had his back turned to Harry, indicating that the conversation was over.  
  
Oh hell, Harry thought as he shut the door quietly behind him. He'd gone through a lot of trouble to try to find a concealment charm that would hide his injury from Moody's view, but it seemed that it hadn't done the job. He hadn't wanted to go to the healer because-- well, because of any number of reasons. In the past year, the war against Voldemort had escalated, and at times it was just easier to distance himself from all the horrors than to actually allow himself to recognize that it was all happening. And had he gone to the healer, it would have meant acknowledging that he'd been injured, that the raid had really taken place, and that all the atrocities were real. And he would much rather believe that they weren't.  
  
***  
  
Harry was somewhat surprised to find his feet taking him towards the local pub after leaving the Ministry offices, but after today-- Harry shook his head, entered, and sat himself down at the bar.  
  
"Well, bless my soul," said the wizened old man pouring drinks. "If it isn't Harry Potter."  
  
Harry nodded and gave half a smile; something for the man to tell his grandkids about. "What's the strongest thing you have?" he asked, sitting stiffly on the stool-- if he slouched, the cut across his ribs ached. And since it wasn't there, he didn't want to feel it. So he sat up straight.  
  
The barkeep raised his eyebrow and reached beneath the bar, pulling out a black bottle without a label. He poured Harry a glass and slid it over. Harry picked up the glass, examining the contents against the smoky light. The liquid was nearly opaque, a dark blood-red color. Well, isn't that appropriate, Harry thought wryly. "Cheers," he said to no one in particular, and downed the glass.  
  
***  
  
It was late; Harry knew that much. He walked slowly and carefully along the darkened alleys, watching his feet with the distrust of the intoxicated. It was a long walk back to his flat, but he was in no shape to Apparate-- the barkeep had insisted on placing a temporary Anti- Apparation charm on Harry before he left, to prevent him from splinching himself. He supposed he could have gotten Ron to come and get him, but that would have meant that he would have been forced to stay with Ron and Hermione for the night, and Hermione would have figured out that he was injured sooner or later. Most probably sooner.  
  
Oh, bloody hell. Harry looked up confusedly at the street sign. Brilliant, Potter. Just brilliant. Not only can you not hold your liquor, you can't even find your way home. Harry looked around him; he seemed to remember something about this place-- but the memory was foggy and obscured by drinking. The townhouses across the street, though-- they looked familiar.  
  
Harry stepped forward into the road. There was a sudden bright light, a blast of a horn-- Harry jumped back onto the curb to avoid the oncoming car, falling to the ground as his feet tripped over the curbstone. For a moment, Harry wasn't sure what was hurting so badly. He pushed himself up gingerly from the pavement, and slipped a hand beneath his shirt. His fingers came out slicked with blood-- he'd managed to open the cut again when he fell. Harry made to stand up, and found that he was suddenly very dizzy. He sat heavily back down on the pavement, his eyes beginning to blur over. Just as his eyes shut, he saw a faint halo of light pour out of the doorway of one of the townhouses across the street, a slight figure silhouetted against the glow.  
  
***  
  
"Come on, Harry." There was a voice at his elbow. A very nice, soft voice. "Come on, Harry, I need you to open your eyes." Harry moved slightly, burying his head into the pillow that was conveniently beneath it. Awfully good dream, his brain registered fuzzily.  
  
"Harry, please open your eyes." The voice sounded worried, entreating him softly. It was a voice that was difficult to ignore.  
  
"Mnnfph." Harry tried to cling to the last shreds of unconsciousness.  
  
"Harry, please...." The plea was accompanied by the briefest of touches along his forehead-- someone's cool hand was brushing the hair away from his face. Harry moved again, trying to wrap the blankets around him tighter, but--  
  
"Shit," he hissed through his teeth, his eyes still shut tightly. Apparently moving that way was going to hurt for a while.  
  
"Harry?" The girl's voice sounded less worried now; in fact, it sounded almost amused. Harry blinked his eyes open slowly, trying to bring the world into focus. "Oh, sorry," said the blur sitting next to him. "Your glasses are right here." She handed the lenses to him.  
  
The universe came swimming back into view, and Harry took stock of his surroundings. He was in a bedroom with cream-colored walls and rosy draperies. A fire crackled merrily in the grate, and the air was warm. There were photographs on the walls; a series of red-headed figures waved enthusiastically at him from their vantage points. Wait. He hadn't gone to Ron and Hermione's after all, had he? No-- the voice hadn't sounded like Hermione at all, so that must mean--  
  
"How are you feeling?" Ginny asked, looking at him with concerned eyes. "I heard the car roar away, and went out to make sure everyone was all right, and there you were." Harry winced. Great. She got to see me sprawled out across the pavement in all my drunken glory. "What on earth were you doing out this way so late?" she continued curiously.  
  
Harry shrugged. "I don't really--" Harry broke off suddenly. "Oh, Christ. My head." His words sounded doubly loud in his ears, and somewhere behind his eyes there was a hippogriff dancing the Highland fling on his optic nerve. Ginny laughed softly.  
  
"Well, I guess that explains why you were out so late." Ginny stood up, and Harry saw that she was wearing a soft blue robe and had her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. The blast from the car horn must have woken her up. "I'll be back in just a moment with something for your head," she said as she disappeared through the door.  
  
Harry sighed and closed his eyes again. What the hell was I thinking when I came over here?!? he asked himself angrily, though of course he knew the answer only too well.  
  
***  
  
"Harry? Harry! HARRY." Hermione's voice shocked him out of his reverie. "Honestly, you'll never pass your N.E.W.Ts. if you don't pay attention and study!" Harry shook his head and stared once again at the wavy lines of text in the book in front of him. Hermione continued with whatever lecture she was giving-- it might have been on the third Goblin Rebellion of the Teronian Age, but Harry had long since stopped paying attention. There were other, more pleasant things to think about.  
  
Like the red-head curled up by the common room fire.  
  
Ginny was leaning against one of the over-stuffed armchairs, her feet tucked underneath her. Next to her lay a stack of abandoned textbooks, and a quill still dangled from her fingertips-- she had been in the middle of writing a History of Magic essay...they tended to be highly soporific. Her face was turned away from Harry, so that all he could see was a twist of copper hair gathered at the nape of her neck.  
  
He honestly hadn't been meaning to stare at her, but her hair was such a distinctive shade that his eyes naturally went towards it-- no, wait. That wasn't true. His eyes did dart towards her hair whenever she was in the room, of course, but that wasn't why he'd been staring at her for the past two hours. Past few months. Hell, the past year.  
  
It had just-- crept up on him. Gradually, and he had no idea from whence it came. He had just woken up one morning and suddenly there was no fighting the fact that he ached without her. He had never meant to fall, of course; Ron would have killed him if he knew. And even if she-- well, that was too impossible to conceive. But just supposing that she did somehow feel the same, it was impossible.  
  
He wanted it to be impossible.  
  
Because if it wasn't, there was the risk that she might be hurt-- by the war, by Voldemort, or (worst of all) by him.  
  
"Harry!" Hermione cut through his thoughts again. "Nordriac the Nefarious! Who was he, and what position did he hold during the Council of Waldregg?"  
  
*  
  
So they had left school, and Harry and Ron got a flat together in Diagon Alley. They both enrolled at the Auror academy-- Ron was assigned to Intelligence, and Harry was trained as an Operative. Hermione made a name for herself in a laboratory researching possible counters to the Unforgivable Curses. A year passed, then two. Ginny left the Burrow as well and found a position at the Ministry in the Department of Mysteries and a townhouse on the other side of town. Naturally, she didn't talk much about her work.  
  
Harry saw her at Sunday dinners at the Burrow and was secretly please that she never brought along a boyfriend.  
  
Another year passed, and Ron spent more time at Hermione's house than he did at their flat. By the end of the year, the Hermione and Ron were planning their wedding. Harry was the best man, of course, and gave the requisite speech and danced with all the bridesmaids-- including Ginny. He looked over her shoulder the entire time.  
  
Another year, and Voldemort gained a stronger foothold after the death of Dumbledore. Harry spent as little time as possible in his flat-- empty now, without Ron, and hardly a home-- and worked instead. He made the Sunday dinners at the Burrow with less and less frequency, which was good. He didn't have to worry about whether or not she would arrive with someone this week anymore. He was too busy.  
  
***  
  
"Drink up," she said, handing him what he recognized by the smell as a combination of a Sobering potion and a Hangover-Relief powder.  
  
"Thanks," he said sheepishly, looking anywhere but at her. He downed the elixir and screwed up his mouth at the bitter taste. He shook slightly as the potion took effect, and slowly felt the fog lift from his head.  
  
"Better?" Ginny took the glass from him and setting it on the bedside table. Harry couldn't help but feel his heart constrict as the lamplight glanced off her hair. Get out before you do something stupid, Potter.  
  
Harry gave a weak smile. "Yes," he said, using every technique he had ever learned as an Auror to avoid showing any sort of discomfort. "I'm really sorry I bothered you, Ginny, and I'm sorry that you had to see me like that." He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "I'll just get going, now."  
  
Ginny stood, putting her hands on her hips. "No, I don't think you will," she said calmly. "It's four o'clock in the morning. You're staying here."  
  
Stubborn. "Really, Ginny, I'm fine. And I'll let you get back to sleep, now, so...." Harry stood up stiffly and made for the door.  
  
"I don't think so, Harry," Ginny said, her voice low. "There's something the matter. And you shouldn't be alone." She stood in front of him, barring his way, just a little too close for comfort. He could smell her shampoo. Strawberries. Of course she would smell like strawberries.  
  
"Ginny, really," Harry tried to laugh it off. "I'm fine. It was just a long day at work, and I got a little drunk. Nothing big." He made to move around her, but she threw her arm out to block his way. Harry winced; he couldn't help it-- her hand had grazed the injured flesh across his ribcage. Ginny caught the involuntary flinch and grabbed his arm.  
  
"Are you hurt?" she asked, her eyes widening. Harry shook his head and tried to pull away, but she had a strong grip and refused to be shaken off. "I said," she enunciated slowly, "are you hurt?" Harry considered just not answering and pulling his arm from her-- he was more than capable of in terms of strength-- but somehow he found himself answering her question instead.  
  
"Just a cut. There was a raid today." Ginny raise an eyebrow but didn't say anything; she just waited. "It was just another raid. It was ugly, there was fighting, and we got the bad guys. End of story."  
  
"Is it?" she asked softly, taking a half step nearer. Stop it. Stop it. I can't think with you this close. Ginny looked up at him, her brown eyes meeting his resolutely.  
  
"Let me see it, at any rate," she said, motioning for him to sit on the bed. "I'll wager that you haven't properly cleaned it, and I'm not too shabby at healing charms." Harry sat, although he wasn't sure why. "Well?" Ginny said, crossing her arms across her chest. "I can't very well see through your shirt, Harry." She gave him a ghost of a smile, and Harry had to force himself to breathe slowly. I wish she wouldn't do that. Harry worked carefully at lifting the shirt up and over his head-- the cut made it painful to move his arms too high.  
  
"Oh, Harry," Ginny's voice was half a sigh as she saw the jagged cut that crossed his ribcage. "Wait a moment." She ran quickly into the bathroom and came back out with a bottle of some potion Harry couldn't identify and a clean white cloth. She knelt by the side of the bed and quickly poured some of the potion onto the cloth. "This will sting," she apologized in advance.  
  
"Holy-- No kidding it'll sting," Harry said between gritted teeth as she applied the potion.  
  
"Wimp," she teased as she applied more of the liquid-- the cut was slowly disappearing, finally becoming nothing more than a narrow strip of raw new skin. "There. Done. Was that so very horrible?" she asked as she sat once again on the bed. He shook his head silently. It had been quite nice, actually, with her hands tickling his chest-- stinging aside. Harry couldn't help but notice that the bed sloped a little with her weight, bringing her leg within a hairsbreadth of his own.  
  
She turned slightly to face him, her knee brushing against his as she did. "So," she said, serious again, "what happened to upset you so much?" Wrong question. Harry tensed instinctively.  
  
"Nothing," he said, moving away from her slightly, "it was just an average raid. I was just a little careless and got myself into trouble."  
  
Ginny's eyes darkened and she bit at her lower lip. "And do you generally get yourself rip-roaring pissed after an average raid, Harry?" she asked, her words measured. Harry stood up suddenly. I don't want to talk about this. "Harry--" she said, but he interrupted.  
  
"What do you care?" he asked bitterly. "What does anyone care? I sure as hell don't." He reached for his shirt, but Ginny grabbed it before him. He held out his hand. "Give it here, Ginny." His voice was tired, and he wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep for a year. Pity she gave me that Sobering potion.  
  
"No, Harry. I won't," she said, standing up beside him. There was steel in her voice, and Harry glanced down to see that her eyes were unnaturally bright. "I won't," she said, her voice so quiet that he could barely hear her. She glanced down, and Harry saw that she was looking at the patch of newly-healed skin across his ribs. "What happens when it's worse than this, next time?" she asked, gingerly tracing a finger along the mark. Harry's breathing grew shallow, and she stepped closer. Harry closed his eyes and tried to ignore the scent of strawberries.  
  
"Harry," he heard her whisper, "I can't let you leave." She reached her hand up and cupped his head gently. Oh God. Something broke loose inside Harry, and he met her eyes while brushing her cheek with his own hand. She's so small.  
  
"I don't want to leave," he heard himself say in a choked whisper. He felt, rather than heard, a soft cry from Ginny, and two small, strong arms wrapped around his neck. And then her lips were on his-- or maybe his lips were on hers-- or maybe it didn't matter whose lips initiated the kiss at all. Harry's mind spun. She tasted like strawberries and salt-- her cheeks were wet. Was it from her tears or his? It didn't matter. All that mattered were the soft, silent noises that filled his ears and sweetness of her mouth.  
  
Somehow, they managed to find the bed. Harry sat back on the edge, pulling Ginny in closer to him, terrified that at any moment he would wake up, cold, hung-over, and aching on the pavement outside. He kissed her as though she would disappear if he stopped for a second. Ginny pulled back slightly and smiled, pulling him further onto the bed before resuming the kiss. He felt her small hands brush over his chest and he shivered at the way she made his nerves sing.  
  
"Ginny," he gasped between kisses, "I swear I didn't come here for--" Ginny silenced him by laying a finger along his lips.  
  
"I know," she said quietly, a smile teasing at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. "But since you are here...." She let her voice trail off and glanced down at the knot in the belt of her robe. Harry gave a lopsided grin and reached to untie it, glancing back up to see Ginny looking at him oddly.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asked hurriedly, ready to apologize if he had crossed an unspoken line.  
  
"Nothing," Ginny answered, smiling at him, her eyes bright with tears again. "It's just-- I don't think I'd seen you smile in ages. I've missed it," she said simply. Harry had no reply to this, and so did the only thing that made sense at the time, kissing her again.  
  
Sometime, during an eternity of fumbling hands and tumbled kisses and half- stifled moans, their clothing slowly dwindled away. Harry wasn't sure at what point he was unable to decipher which cries and caresses belonged to whom. Ages later, moments later-- it didn't matter-- he found himself poised over Ginny, the last of their barriers long since removed. Time paused for a moment as he tried to gather his bearings.  
  
"Ginny," Harry met her eyes, feeling for all the world like his was falling into them. "You're sure about this?"  
  
Ginny reached up and caressed his face. "Yes," she whispered. "As sure as my life." She reached up to kiss him gently and smiled.  
  
"I love you, you know," he said seriously, tangling his hand in her hair. Strawberries.  
  
"I know," she whispered, and a moment later, they both stopped trying to speak.  
  
Coherent thought ceased. There was only warmth, and need, and something else entirely. Harry felt Ginny's hands clutch at his back and her legs wrap tightly around him, and he gave himself over to the blind need to find completion. He felt Ginny gasp under him, and faintly heard her calling his name as the brilliant light overtook him.  
  
**  
  
Later, he was conscious of a warm press of lips against his forehead, and Ginny settling her head softly against his chest. He pulled the covers up tightly around them, and pressed a kiss to her head.  
  
Ginny wrapped an arm around him. "I meant it, you know," she whispered, "when I said I couldn't let you leave."  
  
Harry turned slightly within her grasp, pulling her closer. "I know," he answered softly. "Does this mean I can stay tonight?"  
  
Ginny smiled and ruffled his hair. "It means," she said, her brown eyes capturing his, "that you can stay forever." 


End file.
